French Tickler by Alison Tyler

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll get you anything you want…” We were discussing housewarming gifts, and I’d been thinking of this charming wood cabinet to hold her collection of blue and white antique plates.

“A feather duster,” she insisted.

I turned to stare at her. She was wearing her shorty robe, the black silk one with the dragon emblazoned in red on the back. I think she looks radiant in it with her long black hair, pale skin, dark eyes. She’s tall, and her beauty queen legs seem endless as she struts around my apartment. Sometimes, watching her, I completely lose my train of thought….

“Duster…” she said again.

“Okay,” I relented. “That and something else. You name it.”

“That’s all I want,” she paused. I waited. “A pink one.”

I shrugged and left it at that. Sometimes it’s better not to argue with Nicole. She’s a lawyer and she always wins. But I decided I’d get her something else, anyway. Something of my own choosing.

I went out after work in search of the duster. First, I hit a housewares store. They had an ostrich feather duster that was six feet long and cost one hundred and seven dollars. I vetoed that. Even though I was prepared to spend much more on a gift, I couldn’t see Nicole dusting with something that expensive. Next, I visited a department store. No luck here. The clerk tried to get me to buy a Dustbuster instead.

Finally, I went to my local five and dime. Here, for under a dollar each, I found more feather dusters than I’d ever seen. They had black plastic handles and came in a wide array of desirable colors: aqua, magenta, rose, lavender, plum, teal, and turquoise. I bought one of each and wrapped them together with a wide, satin ribbon. Carrying the bunch like a bouquet of flowers, I walked to Nicole’s new pad.

She was pleasantly surprised, and she took the dusters from me and ushered me into her new apartment.

“What do you need to dust?” I asked. There was absolutely nothing in the place. Her furniture hadn’t arrived and the movers weren’t coming with her boxes until the next day.

“Me,” she said.

I cocked my head at her and then ran my fingertips along her chin. She’s got a foxy face, sharp features, and a cute, pointy little chin.

“Why?” I asked, teasing her. “Are you dirty?”

“You know me, Sarah,” she said.

Now, finally, I understood the dusters.

“Get into that room,” I said, pointing down the hall. “I want you stripped and standing with your hands holding your ankles before I count to ten.”

She kissed me before obeying, but I’m not adverse to a slight change in the rules. I savored her kiss, bit her bottom lip hard, and then spanked her ass once before watching her high-tail her way to the bedroom. Then, I started counting, slowly, and loudly. When I reached ten, I walked back to the bedroom. She’d done what I said, had taken off her black turtleneck and black leggings and had tossed them in a heap on the floor. Her bed hadn’t arrived yet, but she’d spread a bedroll under the window and had dressed it with a two-person sleeping bag.

I had picked the dusters up and I carried them with me into the room. I unwrapped the ribbon and used it to quickly bind her wrists to her ankles. Then, taking full advantage of the situation, I dusted her. Yes, I dusted her. I used those deliciously dyed feathers to tickle her ribs, under her arms, the back of her neck, and between her legs.

She moaned. She begged me to stop. She started to giggle. But I could tell by the husky quality to her voice, by the scent of sex in the room, that she was growing excited. I took two dusters in each hand and I used them on her inner thighs and between the cheeks of her ass. She strained against the ribbon, begging me even louder now to stop. Begging me to release her, or relieve her.

To stop fucking around and fuck her… or something like that.

But I, twisted and taunting lover that I am, was having way too much fun. I bent on my knees behind her and started probing her asshole with my tongue, using my four friendly dusters to tickle her in front, pushing her forward with the ministrations of my mouth. She loved it, every second of it. She cried and squealed for me to take pity on her, to drop the dusters and fuck the living daylights out of her, but she loved every torturous, every ticklish moment of foreplay.

That’s how my girl is. She needs it a bit off, a bit slow, a bit different. Then she can truly enjoy herself, can truly let go and open up for my cock, for the feel of my slacks against her naked skin and my synthetic wonder deep inside one of her orifices.

We’re keeping the dusters in a vase by the side of her brand-new bed. But I don’t believe they’ll ever dust anything but pussy.